


The Line of Dance

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Evangeline Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been as much of a surprise as everything else—as a Seeker who once called her prisoner and now called her friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Line of Dance

Nothing about Cullen was what she expected.  It only dawned on her now, now as he led her into a waltz competent enough for her to know that if he did not dance, it wasn’t because he didn’t know _how._ His hands were every inch as steady as when they held a blade, his steps as sure as during training exercises.  Alone, they danced, their dress boots scuffing gently against the stone to muted strains of an Orlesian tune as the last streams of the fading sunset disappear behind the mountains and stars slowly pick their way, one by one, out of the gathering dark. 

He’d been as much of a surprise as everything else—as a Seeker who once called her _prisoner_ and now called her _friend._   Evangeline’s recollection of that first day consisted largely of brief impressions, of flashes that lit her memory like intermittent lightning; the dark cell, the mark upon her hand, not only glowing but burning her, searing her throughout like a hundred thousand fiery knives.  She remembered the blinding brightness of sunlight upon snow, twice as piercing when they stepped out of darkness and into light.  Cassandra’s distrust—so foreign to her now—as she picked up a staff, defending not only herself, but the Seeker as well.

But her first impression of the commander had been so… muddled by everything else—by the scar across the sky through which demons fell to earth, by the news everyone at the conclave—save her—was, Maker help her, _dead_ , by the knowledge she possessed the means by which to close these rifts.  One thing after another after another, information came faster than she could process it; looking back, Evangeline isn’t sure how she managed to avoid screaming bloody murder and running for her life.  Not that it would’ve done any good, granted, but still.

Even with all of these things taken into consideration, her first impression of Cullen had been that he was a force with which to be reckoned, a man to whom one did not offer failure laced with excuses.  She saw him first through the eyes of a recruit, though she had not precisely been recruited as much as she’d been conscripted by virtue of the jagged streak across her palm.  But even then, something in him had…not given her faith, exactly, but had inspired a sort of determination she wouldn’t have expected, not at that time, not at that place, and certainly not under those circumstances.  

 _I hope they’re right about you,_ he’d said.

And, Maker’s blood, she’d hoped so too.

It wasn’t until later—after she’d closed that first rift, passing out from the blazingly bright energy that had seemed to set her skin, her hair, her blood and breath aflame far beyond the way mana tingled when it danced in her veins—that she began to see glimpses beyond her first impressions.  

That he’d been a templar had, yes, surprised her, but only momentarily; the truth of it was the role fit him, or seemed as if it might have done, once.  And though it wasn’t who he was anymore, she wondered how much of a templar’s self could one shed in favor of a new mantle.

And as more time passed she’d wondered, with increasing chagrin, what he thought of her.

She was accustomed enough to templars, though in a general sort of way; they’d been a fixture at the Ostwick Circle, but she’d never taken much opportunity to _speak_ with them. Besides, that that sort of fraternization had never been encouraged.  

Truthfully, she _had_ thought them cold, once.  

But as he was not technically a templar any longer, she took the opportunity to speak with Cullen—and before long, she took every opportunity. And then, with uncertain recruits training around them, swords clashing, their steps marring the snow beneath their feet, he surprised her again.

Oh, her remark had been genuine enough—she _had_ enjoyed his enthusiasm, even found it infectious—but his stammering response, his discomfiture, all of it stood in such direct opposition to the man she’d seen that first day.

Cullen was not cold; he was too much red and gold, like a sunrise.  When he barked orders at training recruits, there was no chill in his voice; on the contrary, there was almost too much warmth to it, turning it ragged with frustration or hoarse with pride—or that gentle, teasing tone that crept in when they were alone.

Their dance had started long before reaching the Winter Palace, a series of slow, complicated steps drawing them ever closer.  Steps that had led them to the battlements, stammered admissions between them—and then—and then she, not only ready but willing, aching to flee, cheeks burning with embarrassment, apologies and excuses poised on her tongue—

Maker bless him for stopping her mouth so effectively.

There was nothing cold about the Inquisition’s general, least of all his lips, his hands, his breath; indeed, he was heat and light enough to make her forget she could conjure frost from her fingertips and ice from thin air. What had seemed at the time to be intriguing opposition and contradiction had only been different facets of one man, illuminated over time.  Cullen could not be seen in flashes, like rift-light or lightning; he was meant to be learned gradually, over time, with patience.  Like a dance with so many steps.

And he, it appeared, was equally as interested in learning her.


End file.
